I M Perfect lady

Author: bjukuri

  • March Forth!

    A friend of mine sent this to me this morning.

    "Today is March 4th. A day to collect our strength and boldly march forth. A day, not to forget our struggles but to accept them regardless of how they have affected us. A day to march forth. To march with compassion, understanding and determination, no matter what the past has been, March 4th!"

     

    I may have heard about March Fourth before, but I love the reminder.

    I love the image marching brings up for me, a parade.

    A colorful, magical, badass, marching parade.

     

    A parade of humanity accepting the unacceptable; knowing they don't have a choice.

    It is the route their lives have taken them down.

     

    I am so grateful that I have so many badass friends.  People who have gone through unbelievable pain and suffering, and despite it all, are living lives of integrity, courage, adventure.  Continuing to live lives of great substance!

    I can see the parade of Marching Fourth people.  We are a force to be reckoned with.

    We are fearless, for we know we can survive the unsurvivable.

    And, we need the artistry and color to bolster up our souls.

    Colorful, bright daring individuals are in my parade!

    Marching forth, not only on the 4th of March; but each day and often many times a day.

    March out into the world doing that which needs to be done.

     

    March forth with your whole self. Carrying with us and held tenderly our broken hearts and our wounded souls.  Lavishly decorating them with what brings us love, peace and joy.

     

    Thanks friend for sharing this with me.  I love the parade I am in.  I march forth with you all!  We don't have to march a straight line, or be brave all the time, we just have to keep going forward; together.  We are stronger in a parade!  March forth!

     

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  • Story Line of Becoming

    I felt like I was taking the records of my mentalness as I left Copper Country Mental Health with my quilts. I was taking them out of a safe space. A place that understands, and holds sacred, our mental being.  

    I felt sad, for Joe wasn't there for this transition. He would be so excited to know they were going on the road.  I miss his great hug of confidence. And yet his confidence walks with me.

    As I took down each one, I didn't dwell on them. But, yet each one felt like a piece of my mental breakdown, and a badge of my courage. My broken self and my healing together. Picking up pieces of my self from long ago.

     

    My Story Line quilts, and my most recent quilt, are sharing the same couch today. The history that flows through them, is mine.  Who I was, where I was, and what I was going through, is captured in fabric.

    There is a vulnerability in doing art.  It captures our beginner self.  In these quilts, I also captured my mental wellness or the lack thereof.

    These quilts feel vulnerable – an openness and yet there is tentativeness in doing so.

    I had to look up the definition of Vulnerable.

    "the quality or state of being exposed to the possibility of being attacked or harmed, either physically or emotionally."

     

    What these quilts carry is vulnerability and courage.

    For, I truly felt completely terrified to be attacked for my openness. And so badass for being so open.

    At the time these quilts were created, I was a mess and my life shattered. 

     

    The woman herself was so small and frightened – and a stranger to me. I had no idea who I was, where I was going, or who I would become.  And, I wasn't even sure of my history.  The state of my world was terrifying and hopeful.  A messy ending and a beautiful beginning.

    The quilts are so beautiful in their artistry.  It blows my mind that someone in the state I was in, could continue to do art.

     

    There was a desperateness in my art.  Or, should I say to do art. I needed so desperately for there to be something alive and beautiful in my world at that time. And, yet it recorded my inner state of vulnerability and unknown – against the backdrop of life.

    For the next three weeks, I will look at these quilts with new eyes and re-read and perhaps re-write captions for them.

    Reconnecting with past self and the trauma she was in.

    I feel such awe in my ability to be so exposed – both artistically and emotionally.

    To share my wounds – not only of being sexually abused, but also that I didn't know who I was or what I stood for etc.  

    Like a bleeding broken self who does art.

    These quilts oddly seem more valuable today, then they did while I was making them. I feel the history and story line of becoming.

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  • Life out of Control

    What I learned from the Hit and Run encounter, is that we bump into people all day long. We are exchanging experiences, energy and who we are, with everyone we come in contact with.  And, we are left better, or worse off, by each brush along the way. We leave traces of ourselves on each other.

     

    Some encounters have a ripple effect, and the consequences line up to be dealt with.

    Perhaps all encounters ripple outward, and their energies stay with us, like an imprint.

    We carry with us the energy that we hit up against.

     

    The energy of the hit and run feels toxic and abrasive.

     

    The lack of control within his own life, left me worse off for your encounter.

    Gratefully it was only my jeep.  He had spun me towards the parking lot of the feed mill. Thankfully no one was outside and that I didn't hit someone or a car – or that a vehicle was in the lane I crossed over.

    His neglect in his world affects others he is in contact with, even if for a brief moment of time.

    I will need to figure out a way to deliver the mail, while my jeep is in the shop for a week. It's an inconvenience that is all. 

     

    What it showed me is that we are affected by others.  And some encounters can create added stress and bring in complications.  They messy up your life.

     

    The regularity and stresslessness of my life shows how little contact I have with folks who are out of control in their worlds.  I am deeply grateful for my peaceful life.

     

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    Later on on my route that day, these two stood in the road, playing chicken with me.

    Life is series of encounters.  We can chose how we deal with each of them.  I am very lucky that most things that I encounter on the route are beautiful and leave me feeling better.

    I am happy I was the one who was hit, and not the hitter. He is facing much worse consequences from our encounter. Perhaps it will be his wake up call.  That what we do, does impact others around us. Even those who we have brief encounters with.  I hope he gets the help he needs. I can't imagine living a life out of control.

     

     

  • This is a security camera image of the truck

     

    Truck and Driver have been found.

     

    Thanks everyone for sharing this post!

     

    This is a security camera image of the truck that hit me. It was taken by the camera at Karvakko's store. Today, I may be able to see the whole video. The owner said she thought it looked like the truck was going about 40 to 45 miles an hour. Just what I had thought as well.  And, you can see the truck continued on up North Lake Road.  She also said, the truck didn't slow down for the intersection.

     

     

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    According to the debris on the road, this is exactly where it should have been based on this picture.

    It is a single cab truck, which should make it easier to find.  Most trucks now a day, have backseats.  It will be missing a headlight and blinker on the drivers side, and maybe a bit of my bright green paint.

     

    There were ladies out for coffee in the Feedmill Diner, and they heard the crash, but didn't see the truck.  

     

    The driver may be in trouble, if they couldn't afford to stop at the scene of an accident. Perhaps it will be their wake up call.  And, next time the damage may be much more significant than a mail jeep.

    However, in my little world, the mail jeep is quite significant.  They don't make right hand drive vehicles in the US anymore. We can get them, but you pay an extra $10,000 over what a new jeep costs. I would love to have this little jeep until I retire.

    Thank you everyone for your kind words and concerns.

    If you recognize this truck, Houghton County Sheriff's office is the one who took my report – 906-482-0050.

     

     

     

  • Hit and Abandoned

    I was halfway through my route, when a Bright Blue Ford Pickup Truck blew a stop sign and hit the back of my jeep, swinging me sideways, almost hitting vehicles parked at the Feedmill Cafe.

    I caught the bright blue flash, as it barreled towards me, and before I could finish the thought, I was struck hard!

    When I stopped I looked around for the truck, and it was nowhere to be seen.

    This was a hit and run.

    I am okay.

    But, sadly the jeep is not.  It runs down the road, but it is wounded.

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    I felt so violated by that truck.

    Who strikes a vehicle and keeps on going, never looking back to see if I was okay.

    The debris from both our vehicles littered the intersection.

    I called the police.

    I wanted there to be a report.

    The officer, wasn't very helpful.

    I hadn't moved the strewn pieces until he arrived.  Once he surveyed the scene – I went to pick up the pieces.  I found a piece that didn't belong to me, it was from a Ford. Which is why I know it was a Ford Truck.  Part of his headlight and blinker.

    My husband came and changed my tire and looked over the jeep to see if it was okay to continue on the route – it was.

    Needless to say, my day had a punch to it.

    The main thing is I wasn't hurt – just a bit sore from the jarring whip, but okay.

    And, the jeep is drivable until it gets into the body shop.

     

    My license plate lay crumpled in the snowbank. Looking like I felt – hit and abandoned. 

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  • You be you, lovingly

    Most women or humans in general, can tell you in a second, what they don't like about themselves.  It is right there at the tip of their tongue; but can they tell you what parts they love?

    We have so many moving parts to our lives, from our body, mind, soul, self, relationships and roles we live. Yet, we can get stuck on something we haven't fully accepted.

    We may want something that is impossible to change, to change.  Our minds chew on this on repeat.

    What parts of your world do you love?

    What things in your life feel brighter and lighter?

    And, what brings you energy?

     

    After hearing that we don't focus on what we love; but will repeat over and over what we hate, it was suggested to start talking to the things you love.

     

    The biggest part of myself that I LOVE is my awareness. My ability to be right here right now. Even if, there are times I slip and wish this moment was different, or wish someone was there that isn't etc.  For the most part I love that I can be with reality, even when it is soul crushing; or perhaps when life is at its worse I can sit right there.  

    This year I am looking to improve my being here, by not wishing to add someone or something to this moment in time. To let it be as it is. To allow others their freedom of choice, and be so okay with it.

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    I love my ability to be in the present. I can become so fully present that the rest of my life slips away.  This happens doing so much that I love to do; it brings my mind back to my body, to be where my feet are.

    I love my ability to have hard conversations; to be vulnerable and open.

    I love being active, and allowing myself to be where I am.  I admit, I would love love love to be badass; but mostly I am slow active.  I am so grateful for all I can do, and all the places movement has brought me. And, the new friends I have met along the way.

    I totally love being a grandma.  I love watching the new little ones grow into their worlds. I love how they are showing us who they are. I love that I just get to be with them; and they are not my responsibility.  My role is simply to enjoy their presence. And, I get to do this also with my children; now that they are grown.  With less responsibility, my world is growing lighter.

    I love feeling like an artist, and can blame my crazy, eccentricities and weirdness on the art that flows in me.  I often feel like a living piece of art.  And, I like uniqueness – imperfect mismatch things, which all looks like my life.

     

    There is so much more to love about me and my life; than there is to hate.

    The hate things, are no longer hated.

     

    When I loved, what some would say is hard to love, my abuse, it allowed me to love the less ugly parts too.

    In fact, they say in order to love yourself, you have to first love the very parts you hate.

    And not to positive think over the top of them. But truly be understanding with those parts.

     

    I love this body.  And the million things it does for me. I even love my poor hips and how they try their best to accommodate my slow active fun.  My extra pounds come along for the ride.  My unwillingness to focus on weight loss – to enjoy the sweets of life. 

    I heard on a podcast, that after a difficult childhood; adulthood felt like a second chance at being a child. I often feel this too.

    That after so many years living in the dark – denial, cult religion, survival mode etc – that I feel so much freedom to just be and do – a child like mode of living.

    The rules are now gone and the weight of sexual abuse's secrets lifted.  I am a free spirit.

    I love where breaking the silence eventually brings you.

     

    Perhaps loving the things you have been taught to hate about you and your life – will allow you to love all of you.  The imperfections are perfect; coming from whence you came.

     

    Imagine loving the imperfections.  

    Because, are they really imperfect?

    Or more, what is perfect?

     

    Imagine a world of people, loving who they are.

    The energy of that would be quite remarkable.

    And, they really don't have a choice, everyone else is taken.

    You Be You, lovingly.

     

  • My Lady and I

    My Story Line quilts are heading to Marquette at the end of March. They will be on display in the Huron Mountain Club Gallery, at the Peter White Library, for two months. 

    They have been on display at Copper Country Mental Health for about 6 years.  

    I was reminded as to how long, when a memory popped up on Facebook, of me and the photojournalist who interviewed me for Call Me Mental.  

    I am excited they will have a new audience.  And, they will be there for Sexual Abuse Awareness month, and Mental Health awareness month.  

    It will be fun for me to have them home, for me to look them over, and see if the writings I have for each one needs to be updated or re-written in some way.   I had hurriedly created words for each quilt, when I knew they would be recognized at Copper Country Mental Health.  I wanted an explanation, or what the quilt's message was for me.

    I will be bringing them home next week.

    I can look over each one and see how they are holding up, and sit with each quilt and their message.  A reunion I am looking forward to.

     

    I also have to come up with six sentences about the quilts and I.

    Six lines that will encapsulate the art, and the artist.

     

    I called my show – My Lady and I, the same as the title of the book I created many years ago.

     

    My Lady and I collection – Is a fabric journal of a woman's inner journey from denial into self-awareness.  

    Denial of self, and my sexual abuse as a child; an inward journey to find love, peace, and joy, by embracing my imperfections.

    My art and I evolved together; as my self esteem grew, so did the woman in my quilts.

    I loved my lady; the freedom she had to be herself – and found out she was Me.

    My lady and I are still doing art, still growing and becoming.  When she and I are not playing, I deliver mail 6 days a week, and I am a mother of 4 and grandmother of 2, and a wife of 32 years.

     

    That sounds like a good PR Statement.

    I am excited to go on the road again with My Lady!

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    Six years ago at a reception – that Joe Freed arranged at Copper Country Mental Health.

     

  • Obey My Soul

    When writing about childhood abuse and trauma, there are two sides; the parent's and the child's.  Most often, folks rush to understand and sympathize with the parent; for it is our natural tendency to protect parents.  We have been schooled with "love, honor and obey thy mother and father." 

     

    This one commandment, and belief, often steps in front of a child's healing and self empowerment.

    And, it also leads others to first defend or explain the hows and whys of what a parent did.

     

    Alice Miller in her books – one being "The Body Never Lies", speaks of how this is so damaging.  How just that one simple, yet profound, belief, can stop one from seeing where their trauma came from. As well as seeing their parents in their true colors AND to see the causes of their abuse.

     

    Is it more loving to not see the truth of your parents – and to believe in that which isn't even true?

     

    While it was terrifyingly painful to see a parent that was abusive, it actually allowed me to see my own wounds.

    Can you see a wound, if you don't see who delivered it to you?

     

    Mostly, my intentions is to empower the child/adult child.  I am not really interested or concerned with keeping the 4th Commandment.

    I am much more interested in finding out why we are the way we are.

     

    Imagine what freedom children would have if they were not taught this commandment.  If they were allowed to see their parents clearly.  

     

    In the First Apostolic Lutheran Church, the commandment is taught. And, what is also key, is the forgiveness of sins. So, parents can remain whiter than snow and perfect. Their imperfections cannot be seen or talked about.  

    This commandment also gave my mother protection from her children. I was not allowed to see her sins or call them out.  I actually wasn't allowed anywhere near her religion. She refused to talk about it. That and her husband. I was to only speak of myself.

    How pray tell can you speak of childhood abuse, IF we leave the parents out of the equation?

     

    I dropped the commandment.

    I lowered the shield that protected my parent's and their actions.

    I allowed everything to be seen and felt by me.

    FEEL THIS, is what I often said after receiving a call or letter/card from my mother.

    I had to bring her into reality, in order to fully deal with my abuse.

     

    I had to own the fullness of having a father who is a pedophile.

    I cannot honor, love and obey a man who abuses little girls.

    Is that wrong?  

    It is more, where the commandment is wrong for us who experienced abuse at home.

     

    It is my deepest hope, that I can empower children to heal and end the cycles of abuse.

    And, I do not believe we can do this, and honor the 4th Commandment.

     

    What I want others to know, is that when you rush to feel from the parent's view, you are actually leaving the child without support. Regardless of their age.  If we can stop obeying this one commandment, children will be free to set up boundaries and learn healthy relationships.

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    Some may rush to save the commandment, and that is okay.

     I understand.

    You are free to do so.

    And, I am free to let it go, so I can honor, love and obey my soul. 

     

  • A Mother Who Loves You

    Being estranged from my family, I will not experience many of life's natural moments.  Moments that I believe hold sacred empowerment – the handing off of the torch of life – when a parent passes on.

    A moment that holds more love, than words can eloquently express.

    I am not even sure there are songs that can capture the love between a mother and child.

     

    A woman passed this week.

    Shortly before passing, she was holding her grown son's hand and saying "I love you too."

     

    I know he feels great grief and sadness to lose his first love, and the one that has loved him his whole life. The love that began as a child and saw him through his life – the good times and bad.  And, how he too has known her his whole life.  A life-long friend. And, I am sure there will be a hole where his mother's life was.

    This feels foreign to me.

    While I want to feel sorry for his loss, what I feel more is his years and years of gains.

    The love he has had feels like a mountain – to my next to nothing.

     

    It is hard to articulate what is missing, for what I am missing, I never had.

    A parent's love.

     

    The differences in our worlds where one is color and the other black and white.

     

    I am grateful I do know what love is.

    Love of self.

    Love of spouse.

    Love of my children and grandchildren.

    For that I am very grateful.

     

    Even so, I feel the absence of knowing parental love.

    And, I am moved to tears knowing what some children have.

    The comfort of a mother, like a warm quilt that energetically holds you; always.

     

    I feel the nakedness and cold where love is missing.

     

    Love is something that is odd to explain, and sometimes we feel it most when it is gone.

    Or, when it isn't there.

     

    I feel the greatest reason I left my family was to find love. Real love. Love that doesn't hurt. Love that you can see, feel and hear. Love that weaves moments and memories that will last long beyond my lifetime.

    I see this love between my daughter's and their girls.

    I see this love between my children.

    Between me and my grand children

    And my husband and I.

    And Me.

    Love that feels ouch-less.

    Love that is pure.

    Authentic

    Kind

     

    I am sorry my friend did lose his mom.

    Very sorry.

    For that kind of love will rock your world.

     

    It is interesting to me, that we all feel pain in our lifetimes.

    Pain of not having a mother's love and the pain of losing a mother who loves you.

     

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  • One with One

    What has been so affirming, in the journey of reclaiming myself and my body from a religion, IS how much the body has been used as a tool against us.  And, how the mind turned into the enemy.  It is as if I was living with two very unfriendly aspects of me – posing as friends.

    The church's teachings about the body's sins, and how it was hell bent to bring us to hell, didn't allow me to connect to its wisdom.  Body disassociation – living from the neck up; and even that wasn't good enough.  Our thoughts and imaginations were also not good.

    There wasn't a part of ourselves we could seek for refuge.  It was to live separated from the very things that made us Us.  

    Years ago, when I found out that I owned my toenails, it was shocking.

    I was separate from the large organization that ruled me.

     

    There is a member of my old church who comes to the Art shows, and her first, and sometimes only words to me, are about my hair.  "Nice dye job" – or "Interesting color" etc.

    She only sees the sins of my hair dying.

    She misses seeing me underneath the sinful hair. Just a sinful body.

    A sinner.

    An outsider.

     

    What is hard for me to articulate is that when I was part of the religion, I was not a self, yet I didn't know it. I wasn't able to own/sense/feel or be attached to my body. 

    Even that sounds weird.

     

    But, I can know how I was back then, by being with someone who is still under the trance/beliefs of the cult.  There is no body or sense of self that is separate from the religion.

    They are the religion.

    But without a body and mind.

     

    Again, I am having trouble depicting the cult and person. For the person is the cult.

    And, yet they can see others as belonging (matching) or not.

     

    When you exit a cult like religion, and have autonomy of your body/mind and soul – but you are unaware of how to engage with free will. You leave the cult and gain yourself – a body and a fucked up mind.

    Literally.

    It is to wake up to a very skewed sense of self in a more than alright world.

    Whereas prior the world was messed up and we were right. 

    Right, being a woman who doesn't have control over her own body.

     

    I have tried to talk to many women who are still within the church about how they don't own their own bodies.  They cannot see where they are powerless.

    It is odd.

    They are under the influence of the church; but unaware.

    Totally.

    Their minds are completely minds of the church.

    This isn't only in my old church; the First Apostolic Lutheran Church, but other churches as well.

    Many of these organizations claim humanity, while infringing upon the rights of others, or stating what is wrong with them – being that they are the one right path.

    Church members using god and jesus to disconnect people from their own inner truths and bodies.

     

    Moving and living dead to the fact of their own body and mind, and its natural wisdom.

    How foreign it would be to them and terrifying to own their bodies. To strike out against the church and its sins?  To leave the church and rejoin and connect their body, mind and soul.

    Horrifying at nature's dance.

    Instead feeling the comfort and peace to live disassociated.

     

    The reason I am not interested in finding a new religion, and/or going back to my dysfunctional family IS that I cannot disassociate from Me.

    And, the unwritten or even written rules warrant that I leave me behind.

     

    There were moments, that I felt that in order to make a choice that would be kind or gentle to the family and religion, I would have had to die. 

    I would have had to give up the newly found self.

    She was real.

    I could not turn away from her.

     

    I do not believe that there would be very many adult people who would give up their minds, bodies and souls to enter into a religion.   Which is why most enter in as a child.

    They lose agency over their body and mind before they are even aware.

     

    It is quite shocking to see women disassociated from their body and minds.

    Ruled by an organization; unable to move separately. Think outside of its teachings.

    I used to think there was a woman behind there.

    But, I know from experience, there is not.

     

    When I woke up I felt like a newborn. A toddler in her life.

    Unable to make a decision for myself.

    A choice with its own voice.

     

    I had to walk into my life, sorting out what was Me and what was the church or dysfunctional family.

    Each piece of my world had to be reconnected in ways that honored Me.

    It is no wonder that the body's freedom and self expression seem awkward at best.

    A wondrous vehicle of emotion, feelings, intuition, imagination, expression, passion, that I live in to be Me.

    The body isn't Me.

    And, the church doesn't own it anymore.

    Nor is it a shameful part of the abuse.  

    It happened to it.  

    So, did religion.

     

    My body and mind are tools used by the soul.

    We live together experiencing what it is like to be a woman.

     

    Oh, the years of my youth that I spent miles from my body.

    The numbness.

     

    And, yet I am lucky.

    There are many who are born into the religions and who die there.

    Unaware they have a body and a mind – unable to make a choice and use their voice for self-expression.

    I feel I have lived two lives.

    One without a body, and one with one.

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